


John Watson (Broken)

by 107bucky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BBC, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Ouch, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-18 17:40:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17585345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/107bucky/pseuds/107bucky
Summary: John has a panic attack and Sherlock, unusually clueless, tries to help him through it.





	John Watson (Broken)

"John? John, I need you -- I need you to look at me, okay? Look at me."

His head was swimming. John stood motionless, eyes cast forward as he stared at nothing. He was pretty sure if someone nudged him he would crumple into dust, cease to exist. Nothing. 

He was dimly aware of his heart thumping loudly in his ears, a bass line to a song he could never get out of his head. Constant and pounding, ringing, he was going to faint --

Two hands clasped his head, thumbs stroking his cheekbones as Sherlock leaned closer, eyes intense. 

"John? Look at me. Please." His voice cracked.

"I..." John took a step back, he was going to faint, he was going to throw up, he was going to -- "Sher..." With a thud, he landed on his knees, eyes still sightlessly staring ahead. He'd heard the term of 'thousand-yard stare' and could only imagine that was how he looked at that moment. A ghost, a mere copycat of his former self -- a shadow, no depth, no emotion to him -- callous and empty. 

"John," Sherlock said urgently, voice like breaking glass, "tell me, where are we right now?"

"Not... not home," he panted. He blinked, and saw the battlefield. Sherlock gave way to a soldier as a bomb exploded over head, showering him with hot shrapnel. He flinched and sank further into himself.

"No, we're not home," he agreed. "But we need to get home, can you manage that?"

John blinked as the world continued to grow and shrink around him. His chest felt tight. He tried to force a deep breath and couldn't get enough oxygen, and a new panic kicked in -- he couldn't get out, couldn't get out, he was going to die -- 

Sherlock knelt beside him and planted his hands on his shoulders, keeping him steady. "John, look at me," he repeated, urgent. He forced himself to meet his gaze, eyes barren and dulled. "Can you stand?"

He sensed himself nodding, averting his eyes as screams echoed throughout his head. If Sherlock wasn't holding him steady he would simply collapse, swaying forward and fainting like that. 

"Sher -- " he said, and hated how his voice cracked. He swallowed painfully and tried again, tried to breathe, tried to calm down -- "Sherlock," he panted. Hands pulled at him, tugging him upwards, and he sagged against Sherlock, pressing his face into his heavy coat. He smelled like rain and smoke. John could only smell the blood on his clothes of the soldiers long deceased, feel the grit of the gore and dirt under his hands, see flashes of white, red, orange, exploding in his mind.

"I couldn't... couldn't save them." Sherlock's fear spiked as his doctor's words slurred, as his pulse, already too fast, quickened, and he held him closer, afraid of the consequences of letting go. 

"It's all right, John," he assured as he walked them down the street, holding John upright.

"No, it's not all right," he breathed, stopping in his tracks. "It's not, it's not okay, it's not okay," he gasped, clinging to his arms. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and John tried to gulp in air, and came up empty. He was going to die, he was going to die -- 

"I know," Sherlock hushed as John pressed into his jacket. "John, listen to me, all right, we're going to get you home, and you'll -- "

"Don't say I'll be fine!" John tried to keep from hyperventilating as he squeezed his eyes shut, making a helpless noise deep in his throat. "I am not okay, Sherlock!"

Going to faint, going to be sick, going to die, going to die -- hyperventilation, gunshots, blood staining his hands -- "John? Can you hear me?" Panic, he was panicking, he was going to die --

"I-I'm not -- " John sobbed as Sherlock squeezed his shoulders, forcing him to remain standing. He fell against him and sobbed into his jacket, and Sherlock wrapped protective arms around him as he cried. 

Sherlock pulled his phone out with one hand and shot Molly a text with the address, simply informing her to please pick them up. 

Urgent, feel free to get here as quickly as possible.

\- SH

He stroked his hair and shushed him quietly as John weakly gasped for breath, the world spinning around him.

A small white car pulled up onto the curb, crunching onto scattered gravel. John refused to lift his head, and allowed himself to be led to the car. The door opened and shut behind him, and he turned to stare through the window, eyes red and haunted. Sherlock sat in front and shared a glance with Molly, concerned as always. 

"Is John..?"

Sherlock gave a subtle shake of his head, glancing at him in the rearview mirror. His chest pulled tighter and he took a slow breath. "Panic attack," he mouthed to Molly. She pursed her lips and focused on the road, her large brown eyes flickering back to John every now and then -- nervous.

She pulled up to 221B Baker Street and watched as they left. "If -- if there's anything I can do, let me know."

Sherlock glanced in the window. "Thank you," he murmured before following John in. He kept his steps light, breathing softly as if a breath too harsh will break John, shatter him to pieces. He was quiet, now, tucked into himself and too afraid to make his presence known. Sherlock sank into the couch beside him and John refused to make eye contact, clenching his jaw, clenching his fist.

John's breath hitched as tears collected once more in the corner of his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough and strained, tear tracks staining his cheeks. "I'm -- I didn't mean to -- " His voice kept breaking. He was going to -- 

"It's all right," Sherlock assured, taking his chin in his hand and gently turning his face to meet his own. "John." He managed a soft smile as he nodded encouragingly at him. He hated seeing strong-willed John look so lost and hurt. "We're home now, I promise you're safe."

John sucked in a shaky breath, ran a trembling hand through his messy blond hair. "It never goes away, Sherlock," he muttered. "No matter what I do, no matter how many years -- " He clenched his jaw and swallowed. Sherlock was silent as he studied him, and he knew what heartbreak was; it was watching John Watson fall apart.

"It won't go away," he agreed in a quiet voice. "You were a soldier -- pretty good one, too." John made a weak sound in his throat and avoided Sherlock's eyes as he tried to breathe.

He looked at him. Eyes closed, throat tight, John sat stiff as a board, knuckles white as he remained tensed. Still scared. 

Sherlock reached over and took his hand; a foreign show of affection, the type that normally he would see as pointless in the overall relationship -- now, an attempt to show John that he was still there. He could support him. 

John breathed out slowly, pain written on his face. "Sherlock -- "

"I've got you, you're alright now," he murmured. "John, look at me." He did, and Sherlock's bright eyes were warm; sensitive. "I don't understand what you went through, obviously." He mulled over his words a moment, and John clung to him like a lifeline, gripping his hand tight. "But I understand the affects. It was just a panic attack, you're home now."

"I'm... I'm home now," he breathed out, squeezing his hand as he studied him, the pain and anxiety slowly leaving him. Exhaustion quickly took place and he leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes once more as he let out a quiet groan.

The silence settled over them, and Sherlock sat closer, and pulled John against his chest. Exhausted, John kept his eyes closed as he relaxed against him, listening to his heart beat. He was going to be okay.

He was going to be okay.


End file.
